


A Stitch

by BurningTea



Series: Season 11 fic [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Cas POV, Castiel in the Bunker, For the first time, M/M, based on Cas being in the bunker whilst the Winchesters hunt, from the 11x04 promo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:28:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5077792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningTea/pseuds/BurningTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel sews up a hole in Dean's shirt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Stitch

Castiel finds the ripped shirt by accident. He’s searching for something else entirely, a book Dean swears he didn’t have, but which Sam says he did, and which Castiel knows is needed to solve the case the boys are on. Sam told him to look wherever he needed to. Dean didn’t say anything, but he didn’t ban Castiel from searching in his room. The book is there, under a soft, plaid sleeve. 

Castiel takes the book. He takes the shirt, too.

Once he has called his boys, he places the book back on its shelf and sighs at the mess the library is in. He will work on that later, before the hunt is done. He has learned the value of letting things find their own order, but to see disarray when order would work better… He is still an angel, after all.

Because he has also learned the comfort in clothes that fit without ragged holes, has learned the irritation and cold when the holes appear, he finds a needle and sits down with the shirt over his lap. The thread he has found is black, darker than the shirt with its red and blue and purple, but Castiel believes it will serve. Any stitch is better than none. 

The thin cotton feeds through the eye easily enough, his vision sharper than a human’s and his dexterity greater. He gives thanks for it, for no longer having the clumsiness of his human self. He answered to Steve for long enough that he thinks of that version of himself as Steve, the hapless human who nearly ended his life on his knees before an angel, and then went back to cleaning and to selling cheap merchandise the next day. Steve was frail and had to fight for simple things. Steve knew what it was like to live with holes in his clothing that he didn’t have the money to fix well.

Castiel is an angel and will take care of his charges with whatever resources he has to hand. Dean will not suffer the cold as Castiel did when he was Steve.

The first stitch snags at the fabric, rippling it. Change is always likely to bring disruption. Castiel tugs the thread through and forms a knot to anchor the stitches. A solid base is always best. 

By the third stitch, the thread is running smoothly, following the needle as Castiel directs it on its way. 

It doesn’t take long to fix the hole, the black line of the mending as neat as he can make it, and Castiel places the shirt in a drawer in Dean’s room. He pats the material, folded and clean and stitched whole, letting his hand rest against the softness for a moment. He considers.

Then he goes in search of other tears to mend.

 

*************************************************

 

Dean and Sam bring noise with them, chasing the silence of the Bunker away, and Castiel is glad to hear them. He has tuned the angels out as much as he can while still listening out for any warning that they are hunting for him, and the absence of noise has been an ache in his being, leaving him all too aware of the swirl and pulse of his ragged Grace. No needle and thread can fix it, so he ignores it as best he can. 

“Cas?” Dean’s voice rings out, carrying ripples of warmth and exhaustion. It will have been a long drive.

“I’m here,” Castiel says, making sure to speak clearly so that Dean can hear him. Dean worries, he has found, when Castiel is not easily located. It is a new thing, something discovered since the warehouse, since the spell lifted, and Castiel folds the knowledge round himself. It is more warming than the best-mended of clothes. “How was the hunt?”

“Piece of cake,” Dean says. He appears around the doorway and barely stifles a yawn. There is a bruise on his cheek.

“Dean.” Castiel itches to stand, the ebb of his Grace trying to move him, but he keeps himself arranged in the chair he has been using. Dean has made it clear that Castiel is not to heal him unless he is asked or it is a matter of saving Dean’s life. 

“It’s just a few bruises, Cas,” Dean says, but he winces as he settles into the chair across the table. The delicate skin under his eyes is bruised, too, from lack of sleep. “I’ll get a good night’s sleep and they’ll be gone.”

Castiel knows that bruises do not fade so quickly, but he schools himself to accept that they will fade. They are not something which must be fixed. They are something which must be given time. He still wants to reach across the table and set his fingers to Dean’s temple.

“You been enjoying the peace and quiet?” Dean asks. He smiles as he says it, one side of his mouth turning up more than the other. “What’d you get up to? Polish your halo? Fluff out your wings?”

In the background, Sam drops a heavy bag on the floor and groans. Castiel turns to him when he can think of no reply to Dean’s question that won’t be considered blunt. Telling Dean the state of his halo and wings, the constant ache and soreness and coruscating pain, will do nothing but take Dean’s comfort from him without giving any to Castiel. As such, it is best avoided.

“Are you injured, Sam?” he asks. Sam is more likely to be practical, to accept healing. 

“I’m fine. You save your Grace,” Sam says. 

And that is something else he has found of late: his charges now see him as someone who must be looked after. It is strange, after so many years of looking out for them, of attempting to fulfill his many duties to Heaven and to these men and tidying himself away when he was not needed, to discover that they need to feel they are caring for him. Soon, it is likely one of them will make food and be upset if he won’t eat it. Dean may bring him a beer or a blanket, or another pillow for his bed, despite the fact he doesn’t sleep. He will accept anything they bring him, the offering more important than the object. 

“Do you need any help with the bags?” Castiel asks, because this is something he has learned is a human gift, to lend your strength and time to assist with a menial task. 

“No, I’m good,” Sam says. “Hey, do either of you feel like getting a pizza?”

A pizza will mean one of them driving out, or at least waiting by the nearest house for a delivery. Castiel will offer to wait. He will be told it is not his turn. 

“Nah,” Dean says. “Give me a minute and I’ll fix us something. Pretty sure we’ve got steaks from that last shopping spree you went on.”

“It wasn’t a spree, Dean,” Sam says, and Castiel listens to their voices as they wash over him. It is soothing. It is safe.

It goes some way to filling in the edges left by his Grace.

Dean goes to change before he cooks, and Castiel hears him open a drawer and pause. It’s only a short pause before Dean is moving again, into the kitchen and clattering about. Sam tells him about the hunt in more detail as Dean cooks, but Castiel only half listens. The rest of him listens to Dean, warmed by the knowledge he is nearby and safe.

Not long after, when Dean carries three plates into the room, that warmth grows. Dean catches Castiel’s eyes as he sets a plate in front of him. Castiel says nothing about what the steak will taste like to him. Giving Castiel food makes Dean feel better, and there is little Castiel will not do to make Dean feel better.

Besides, Dean is wearing red and blue and purple. As he moves, Castiel catches sight of the row of black stitches, and he feels the ragged edges in him soften. They are not mended. They will likely never be mended. But they are less painful when he sees that his work is keeping Dean warm.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of fluff, I think. Is this fluff? Anyway, it's the first time I've written from Cas' POV and it seems I think of him as a vast ocean or a constant stream of shifting energy. Who knew? Let me know what you think.


End file.
